


her last refrain

by icarusandtheson



Series: encore [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canonical Character Death, Childhood Trauma, Class Issues, Family Issues, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Mother-Son Relationship, Non-Linear Narrative, Rachel Faucette/James Hamilton (mentioned), Rachel Faucette/John Lavien (past) - Freeform, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Reverse Chronology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 12:03:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12365361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarusandtheson/pseuds/icarusandtheson
Summary: Alexander and Rachel, after and before.





	her last refrain

**Author's Note:**

> For Hobbes, who desperately tried to stop me from writing anything in this 'verse for fear of it consuming my life, and who beta'ed in both English and French despite that. Any mistakes in Spanish were my own. Apologies, as these are secondary languages for us both. See end for historical/religious/linguistic notes on where I took creative liberties with history (I took many). I'm on Tumblr at [icarusandtheson](https://icarusandtheson.tumblr.com/), come say hi!

The thick smell of incense, mixing with the old wood and dust. Alexander winces as he breathes in, the smoke stinging his throat all the way down to his lungs. He coughs, wet and too loud in the solemn silence of the church. Peter looks over at him briefly before his eyes drift back to his lap. He keeps checking his watch and wringing his hat in his hands, and Alexander wants to tell him to just _leave,_ he doesn’t care, and Alexander would rather be sitting alone with his mother than have the only other person at her funeral be counting down the minutes.

But if Peter left, there would be no one. Alexander knows that, now. Before the funeral, he hoped… he thought that maybe Pa --

No. He knew Pa wouldn’t come. But it hadn’t stopped him from looking, when he walked into the church. He expected the empty pews, the space that somehow made the tiny church more constricting. Anyone his mother managed to charm over the past two years, anyone who _wasn’t_ put off by her history or the fierce, unapologetic way she lived, quietly stepped back from the shame of it all when her ex-husband came and took everything worth anything.

Peter said they could try and take Lavien to court, but changed the subject quickly the moment he had a chance. Like Alexander was a stupid kid, like his mother’s things were shiny toys he would forget about.

Rachel never did that, she only made promises she could keep and if she said it he _knew_ it was true --

They won’t go to court. Peter is wearing the suit he came to collect Alexander in, frayed at the cuffs and faded. Alexander knows every time Peter looks at him he feels money hemorrhaging from his pockets. Alexander is lucky he wasn’t thrown into an orphanage, or foster care. He’s lucky Peter paid for a proper funeral, even if it’s not a fraction of the goodbye his mother deserved. He won’t ask about his inheritance again.

Her tiny diamond earrings, her rings. The necklace she had since she was Alexander’s age, the one she would let him wear when they used to play dress-up. He hasn’t touched it since he was six. He’ll never see any of it again, resting on her bedside table, waiting for a rare special occasion.

There used to be more, and Alexander used to feel _awful_ that she had to pawn her things for money, but now he’s viciously glad. Rachel came home those days with treats, bought with whatever little was left over after she paid the bills, and they would curl up in front of their crappy television and eat until their teeth ached. Lavien can’t have the jewelry, or their laughter, or the sugar off of their tongues. That’s _theirs._

His. It’s only Alexander’s, now. The only inheritance he can claim.

He stands at the priest’s cue, locking his knees when his legs start to shake. He needs to be better, he can’t give his cousin another reason to second-guess taking him on. He grips the front of the pew tightly and bows his head. Peter jerks his head up and rises quickly, a beat too late.

The priest starts on a decade of the rosary. Alexander realizes with a sinking feeling that he doesn’t know where hers went. The well-worn wooden beads, the string yellowed with age. She was… it was in her hands, she was praying. He remembers the familiar rise and fall of the words, but it could have been a dream. He dreamt so many things, he dreamt Pa came back with a doctor, he dreamt of dark shapes reaching for them, he dreamt she was better, standing at the foot of the bed drinking coffee. A thousand things that weren’t real, but he thinks the praying was.

Did they put the rosary in her casket? Did it fall when the paramedics… when they…

Alexander takes a deep breath, ignoring the burn of the incense, this time. _When they carried her body out of the house._ He has to think it. If he doesn’t, he’ll start to slip again, he’ll forget and start to wait for her and when she doesn’t come for him she’ll be dead all over again.

The priest drones on, slow and dutiful like he didn’t see Rachel as a willful, too-proud smudge on his congregation, like he didn’t spare Alexander only tense smiles while the other children got pats on the head and _God-bless-you’s_. He’s praying in English. It doesn’t sound right. English has never been for prayer, not for them.

Alexander’s gaze slides to the statue of Mary in the corner. She stares down at him, a small crack marring her sorrowful face, her robes faded from years of sunlight. Will she understand, that these prayers are meant for his mother?

_Does it even matter? She let her die. So much for a patron saint._

 

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee --”

 

Alexander stifles a yawn behind his hand, but his mother’s soft snort tells him she’s not fooled. She doesn’t falter in her prayers, but the corner of her mouth ticks up into a smile.

“You can sit down,” she says, the words flowing so smoothly into the next lines that for a moment he doesn’t realize he was spoken to.

“I’m okay.” His knees are aching, and he has to keep blinking the sleep out of his eyes, but he’s supposed to stay kneeling. He eyes the rosary curled around her right hand, tracing each bead with the fingers of her left, spinning them slowly. He can never tell if she’s nearly done or not, and it feels rude to ask.

 He rests his forehead against the cool wood, sweat sticking his skin to the surface. He can smell polish, the sickly scent of wilted flowers. They brought fresh ones, a half dozen. Alexander carried them here, he can still smell them on his hands.

He could fall asleep like this. There’s no air conditioning, but it’s cool enough from the night -- the early morning heat hasn’t seeped in yet. His mother beside him, not quite touching but radiating warmth, her voice shaping familiar petitions in an unending line. Health, prosperity, safety.

He feels watched. Always does, here, but unlike everywhere else, he’s not nervous. If he looks up, Jesus will be staring sorrowfully down from the cross, the saints scattered along the walls, and Mary in her corner, watching over them with soft doll’s eyes. They don’t care that his parents aren’t _really_ married, or that he looks nothing like his father, or that he hasn’t started liking girls yet. If he’s good, if he stays quiet and kneels and waits for his mother to finish talking to them, he’s safe here. _San José_ won’t grab him by the shoulder too hard or look away when he cries, or get drunk and say Alexander can’t be his son, _fils de pute, he’s not mine, I swear to God, Rachel --_

A hand on his shoulder, solid. Real. His heart lurches in his chest for a moment and he jerks his head up. Before his eyes adjust, all he sees are curls, a smile, blue light spilling from behind her.

But it’s his mother that stares down at him, the lines around her eyes crinkled with fondness. Sunlight streams in through the windows, coloring the air. Mary stands on her pedestal, humble and compassionate and _still._

“Time to go. I have to be at work in an hour, I need to take you home.”

Alexander nods, pushing himself slowly to his feet. The ache in his knees surges back, blood rushing to his feet, and he wobbles.

Rachel huffs softly, reaches up to steady him, a hand on his back and the other against his stomach. “Slowly, now. We’re not late yet.”

He leans into her for a moment, the smell of her sweat and perfume stronger than the dregs of incense in the air. She rests a hand on the back of his head, and he feels the rise and falls of her breathing.

“Don’t fall asleep again,” she warns gently.

“I’m awake,” he mutters.

Rachel hums. “You sound very alert.” She laughs as he grumbles, putting her hands on her shoulders and slowly guiding him out of the pew, pausing to genuflect and cross herself quickly. Alexander manages a sloppy sign of the cross, and Rachel muffles a laugh as she guides him out.

 

_Bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres,_

 

The smell of dirt is overpowering. Rachel would hate it, she would want sand and salt in the air, or at least somewhere _open,_ where she could feel the breeze. Maybe she would have liked to be cremated and thrown into the sea. He doesn’t know, she never told him, they asked him and he didn’t _know_ how his own mother wanted to be buried but it’s not his _fault_ …

Peter shifts his weight, sliding his hands into his pockets. Alexander doesn’t look at him, thinks he might scream if he sees the impatience on his cousin’s face.

Alexander pushes his hair from his eyes. It’s long, now. Nearly brushing his collar at the back. Pa would hate it.

Peter clears his throat.  

There’s not enough room for another grave, here. If he died with her, they would have had to be cremated. Would the crematorium even bother to sort the ashes from each other? They could have sat in the same box, unclaimed on some backroom shelf. Maybe Peter would come by eventually, bury the box.

Maybe Pa would find them. At least he would know to scatter them on the beach, in the water. It wouldn’t take much work.

If Alexander dies now, they’ll bury him somewhere else, pour him somewhere else. If he dies now, he’ll never see her again. He missed his chance. He has to live.  

But he can’t leave yet. She’s never been away from him, she _needs_ him. She hasn’t even been dead that long, if her soul is still lingering here, what will she thinks if she sees him walk away?

_Don’t worry, Mama. I’m here._

She would have wanted the ocean.

 

_et Jésus, le fruit de vos entrailles, est béni. Sainte Marie, Mère de Dieu,_

 

“Mama?” Alexander asks.

She tilts her head to the side, not quite looking at him as she hums in response. The wind plucks at her curls, at the edges of her threadbare shawl, as she stares out ahead of her. The sky bleeds into the sea, orange to pink, soft and inviting. Alexander thinks if he could just swim out to the horizon, the water would be warm against his skin instead of lapping coldly at his bare feet. He steps forward, water licking at his ankles. Still cold, but after the first shock, his temperature drops to match it.  

“Be careful,” Rachel warns. “The water is pulling tonight.”

Alexander digs his heels back into the sand as the tide pulls back out to sea, sucking hungrily at his ankles, his feet. He wants to follow, to walk until he’s somewhere else, but his mother’s hand is warm and steady on his shoulder, pulling him back the few steps it takes to be by her side. His skin prickles, where the wind brushes it.

“Careful,” Rachel repeats, and smooths a bare hand over his hair. No sharp tug where his hair tangles up in the ring that isn’t there any more. He doesn’t know if Pa took it back, or if she took it off. There was a little piece of skin, slightly paler than the rest, sitting below the knuckle of her third finger when she came into his room, afterwards. He can’t see it now, but he knows it’s there.

Alexander looks up at her, but she still won’t look at his face. His face that’s so much like hers. How many times did he wish he looked just a little more like Pa, so people would believe he was his son? So that Pa would believe it? Now he just wants her to _look_ at him, to trace the nose and cheeks and high forehead that she gave him, the way she would when he was small.

Alexander wonders if she sees a resemblance now, too late to matter to Pa or their neighbors, to anyone. He wonders if she hates it. Hates him. “Are you angry?”

He came to the water with her to make her happy. He didn’t want to go outside, his skin is too-tight and prickling and he just wants to sleep. But his mother’s eyes are bright, her hands fidgeting, and he knows she would have stayed if he asked her, but she’d stay up the whole night, pacing in the dark, bare feet scuffing the floor boards like a ghost.

Rachel turns, the last bits of sunlight catching in her eyes. Flecks of gold and green wink in and out of existence amongst the warm brown as she blinks, tired and slow. “Why would I be angry?”

Alexander fidgets, toes curling in the wet sand. The tide brought in bits of shell that scratch against his skin, digging into the soft parts between his toes.

She says, “Alexander,” and her voice is too soft. His eyes burn from the salt, the sand, the wind.  

“Is he coming back?” He takes a breath, tries to calm himself, but the next words topple out of his mouth and into the salt and air. “He wasn’t mad this time, he just left, I don’t… is he…”

“Alexander.” She kneels down in the sand and takes his face in her hands. They’re warm like always, gentle even when the rough patches drag across his skin. For a moment, she says nothing. The ocean licks at his feet, and soaks through her long, thin skirt. She doesn’t seem to notice, stroking her thumbs against his cheeks. Her callouses are bigger now, and there are more lines creasing her face, but he still wants to close his eyes, like he would when he was just a kid, and she would do this until he fell asleep.

“I’m sorry,” he says, or tries to. He’s not crying, he’s too old for that, but his throat hurts and he can’t _think,_ he’s not even sure why it hurts so much, how many times did he pray for it to _stop,_ for Pa to just not come home, because after a while praying to make him happy, to make him _love him,_ felt stupid. This is his fault. He wanted this. But he didn’t want _this,_ he just wanted the fighting and the knots in his chest to stop, he didn’t want to make his mother sad, to make her cry like she did when the door closed, and Pa was gone, and she stood in the kitchen shaking. He thought God only answered good prayers, he didn’t think it would happen like this.

_What did I do?_

His mother’s voice, far away. “Close your eyes.”

He does.

Rachel’s hands move to his ears, pressing down, not tight enough to hurt but enough to block out every sound. The rush of blood in his ears still sounds like waves, but softer. Her breath on his face instead of the wind, her hands holding him steady instead of the sand. He breathes, because even though he can’t hear her, he knows that’s what he’s supposed to do. When he can breath without thinking, he opens his eyes.

Rachel smiles, soft and a little sad. She closes her eyes for a moment and breathes deep. She tilts her head forward, pressing it to his as she moves her hands to the back of his head, scratching his scalp softly. He can smell her breath, the strong coffee she drank before they went walking on the beach.

“None of this is your fault,” she says. Her hands tighten against his head, just a little.

“He left because of me,” Alexander says. It’s a little easier to speak, now, because at least he knows it’s true.

She makes a sound like she’s hurt, shaking her head before he even finishes talking. Her curls tickle his face, and it makes him smile, just for a moment. “He left because he wanted to leave. It’s no one’s fault.”

But it has to be. Because his mother is beautiful. Pa said it all the time before, when he only drank a bit, and he could kiss her without her pushing him away for _“smelling like a bar, James, stop it.”_ He said she was the most beautiful woman in the world, and that one day soon he’d make enough money to take them somewhere just as lovely as her. He said that less, as Alexander got older, until he would just stare outside with a faraway look on his face.  

“He didn’t think I was his son.” The crash of the waves nearly drown the words out, but they still seem too loud to his ears. He’s only even heard them inside his own mind.

Rachel makes a sound at the back of her throat, like she wants to cry, or maybe vomit. She doesn’t say anything.

 _Was I?_ The questions sits in his mouth, big enough to hurt but too heavy to move off of his tongue.

“That is _his_ loss, not yours,” she says.

“But --”

Her hands move to his shoulders, heavy. Alexander feels like he could sink straight into the sand. _“Listen.”_

He does.

She meets his gaze. “You are _my_ son. That is all that matters. Do you understand me?”

Alexander nods, but it feels like someone else is moving his body for him.

Her mouth twists like she wants to say more, but she doesn’t. She kisses his forehead again. Once, twice.

He wipes his face against his sleeve. “Do I still have to cut my hair?”

Rachel snorts softly, a smile curling the side of her mouth. “You can grow it as long as you like.” At his shocked look, her smile fades slightly. She pushes his hair back from his forehead. “Things will be different now, better. I promise.”

“I wanted him to go,” Alexander whispers. His eyes widen once the words have fallen out, and he stares up at his mother, horrified.

Rachel breathes out, slow and calm. “I know.” She reaches for his hand. Her hand is hot, her fingers a little sweaty where they curl around his. “Let’s go home.”

 

_Ruega por nosotros pecadores,_

 

Alexander wakes in the dark, shuddering. His heartbeat is too loud in his ears, cold sweat gathering at the back of his neck.

_“C'était seulement un cauchemar, Alexandre. Couche-toi.”_

Alexander blinks slowly, his mother’s bedroom coming into focus. He can make out the outline of her body in the dark, the steady rise and fall of it as she breathes. He shakes, even though it’s too warm even for blankets tonight.

“Mama…” But the words don’t come. Not in English, or French, or Spanish. A little jolt runs through him as he realizes they _can_ speak Spanish now, as often as they’d like. No one else has to understand them but themselves. But he can’t loosen his tongue to finish the sentence, doesn’t know what he’s feeling, not in any language.

His body is stuck, locked in place while he stares ahead. He wishes the moon was out, he wishes he could see anything the way it was, instead of the warped, dancing shadows skittering in front of him.

Rachel huffs softly, reaching up to rest her hand against his chest, palm flat over his heart. Holding his heart in place so it can’t leap out onto the floor, pulling the bad dream out of him like frayed threads. After a few moments of stillness, she gently pushes him down. _“Ne t'en fais pas, je suis ici.”_

He lies back down, Rachel hums in encouragement, pressing a kiss to his forehead and tucking him against her. He’s not a baby, he doesn’t need to be held like one, but he can’t make his mouth form the words to protest. His throat aches. She strokes his hair, murmuring softly in mixed-up syllables he can’t quite understand as she drifts back to sleep. Alexander presses his face against her neck, feels the vibrations of her humming, the thud of her heartbeat against his cheek.

Her breaths tickle the top of his head, low gusts of sound. Her stomach gurgles quietly, and the silence is a little less heavy. They’re breathing out of time with each other, the warmth of her breath coming a moment before his, like waves overlapping on the shore. Alex holds his breath. Rachel makes a sound in her sleep, the arms around him tightening, and he breaths out, too early now. He tries again, and matches her this time, rising and falling on the same wave. When he closes his eyes, her breath warms the back of his neck like sunshine.  

 

“Now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

**Author's Note:**

> *Translations: fils de pute = son of a whore; “C'était seulement un cauchemar, Alexandre. Couche-toi” = "It was only a nightmare, Alexander, lie down/go to sleep"; “Ne t'en fais pas, je suis ici” = "Don't worry, I'm here"; San José = Saint Joseph, Mary's husband in the Catholic tradition, and the patron of, among other things, fathers and immigrants.  
> *For the purposes of this story, Rachel is descended from the Puerto Rican migration to St. Croix from the 1930s-50s, though she was born in Nevis (heavily French-speaking) and moved back and forth throughout her life. This story makes little reference to geographical space, but spans St. Croix and Nevis at various times. This is also the explanation for Rachel and Alex's fluency in French and Spanish as well as English.  
> *Rachel and Alex are Catholic here for a few reasons. Mainly, it is the majority religion of Puerto Rico (see above), and forms a not insignificant portion of St. Croix's Christian populations. Also, it is the religion with which I have had the most cultural interaction, and therefore I thought I could do it some measure of justice in a creative sense.  
> *Mary (Santa María = Saint/Holy Mary or the Blessed Virgin Mary) is the mother of Jesus in Christian tradition, and has significant standing in the Catholic tradition. She is the patron of mothers.  
> *The lines separating each section are lines of the "Hail Mary" Catholic prayer in English, Spanish, and French respectively.  
> *Alexander's cousin Peter in this story is Peter Lytton, the mentioned cousin in the musical who commits suicide shortly after taking Alexander in.  
> *'Lavien' is Rachel's not-quite-ex-husband John Lavien, who both historically and in this story did not divorce her after she left him following an unpleasant marriage and proceeded to take possession of all her meager belongings after her death.  
> *Historically, Rachel had two other sons fathered by Lavien and James Hamilton, but since neither were mentioned in the musical and I found the mother-only child dynamic interesting, I used creative license here.


End file.
